pumpkinhollow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2025-05-21 07:05 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2025-05-21 07:05 pm
Entry tags:
May Event - All Too Familiar
May Event - All Too Familiar
Content Warnings: Walking dead, character deaths, potential for gore | Special Thanks to Meghan and Kalineh
It was a fine spring day when mysterious letters began cropping up all over Pumpkin Hollow. Letters whose apparent senders do not remember writing them, whose recipients or discoverers were harmed by reading them. Eventually these mysteries, though still unsolved, come to a quiet halt as stealthily as they began, but not before a mail carrier in a cowboy hat trots out to Elsie’s tree with a letter in hand, unmarked aside from being addressed to her.
Elsie,
River la Croix has been hiding something in her forge for a while now. It is called the Book of the Dead. In its pages are hundreds of spells from across time and space with the power to give life to those no longer with us.
Your father is doing his best to revive your mother. But this island’s barrier is blocking his will, resisting his magic. I can no longer watch you suffer in solitude when a solution exists. All you have to do is decipher the text, and its powers are yours. Your mother will be returned to you.
River does not want to part with it. She will become suspicious of you if you ask, and it will become harder to acquire it. You will have to take it without her notice by levitating it out of her forge. She, like many others, is fearful of the Book’s power. This fear isn’t entirely unwarranted for them, but for you, your connection to the Feywilds’ magic will be enough to grant you access to that otherworldly power.
Good luck, and all my love to your dear mother when she returns.
Fond regards,
A friend
Could this be it? Could this be the miracle she's been waiting for? Hope swells painfully in her chest as she clutches the note close. She mustn't celebrate too early. She still needs to get the book. At least her mysterious friend has already told her where to find it. Her jaw sets in a look of determination, and she speeds away into the dusk.
It doesn't take long to reach the forge. River has defended it well, but Elsie slips into her own shadow and sneaks beneath the door without so much as a whisper of sound. Only her hand extends from the puddle of shadow on the floor inside, like a disembodied arm hovering before the flames. Mustering her will, she reaches out to the ancient book and commands the winds to lift it. Sweat beads her shadowy brow while she concentrates, the flames flicker and dance around the slowly levitating book. Just a little more, a little more… There!
It's heavy in her hand, and remarkably cool to the touch despite having been pulled from the fire. She retracts her arm and the book back into her shadow and slips out the way she came. Her heart thumps in her chest as she races back to the safety of her tree. To her mother, who will soon be able to wrap flesh and blood arms around her like she once did. All that's left now is to read. Her friends have been teaching her how. Her mother will be so proud of her.
Carefully now, she opens the book, feeling her skin crawl as a sudden unease grips her very core. No, she will not be deterred. The language is unlike any she's ever seen. The letters, if indeed they can be called that, feel jagged and painful to her mind. Still, she will Not Give Up. She screws her eyes shut, thinks of her mother, and holds tight to her desperate hope to be reunited.
When her eyes reopen to behold the page before her, understanding strikes like lightning. Suddenly, she knows she can speak the words. As they escape her mouth, an unknown magic swells into the space around her, then beyond her. The ground shakes. The air turns foul. And as the trinkets in Elsie’s tree chime together in the unsettling breeze, ringing out with notes more sour than usual, it quickly becomes clear that the advice she received was not from any friend.
The forms of people begin to pry themselves loose from the ground all over town, as if emerging from water, leaving the ground unbroken as they lift themselves out of the ground. They bear horrid injuries, shambling along grotesquely, telling a story of death. However, these are not skeletons from the graveyard, housing the souls of long-dead locals. These are things of flesh and blood, however exposed they might be, wearing newer faces.
Much newer.
Since the barrier went up, many people have died, only to have their bodies vanish and replaced by a new one. Those bodies now walk the town, seeking to unleash a wrath brought on by the corrupted magic of the Necronomicon. Anyone who has died inside the barrier will have a violent, undead copy of themself representing each death wandering the island looking to increase their ranks. Which means that there will be many, many, many Yoricks.
Destroyed copies will remain destroyed for the standard overnight period of any other person. But there are too many of them to defeat this way, and their destruction is impermanent. Thankfully, help is on the way!
In the midst of the undead and their attack on the citizens of Pumpkin Hollow, tiny glimmers of hope appear in the form of folded paper birds. The little gold birds flit from fighter to fighter, small whispers promising that if enough enemies can be felled then the High Priestess can intervene. The necessary number is unknown, but if a bird alights upon someone, they will feel their weariness vanish for a short time, and perhaps, should she feel like it, they may receive a temporary boon to use against the undead.
Eventually the High Priestess will show herself, making good on the promises of the little birds. With a smile, her magic will wrap around the remaining undead, returning them to the unseen graves and binding them into Death once more, leaving the living to pick up the pieces.
She gleefully rips open that letter, hoping it's another message from her father. It isn't and, at first, she's crushed. But only until she starts to actually read it.
Elsie,
River la Croix has been hiding something in her forge for a while now. It is called the Book of the Dead. In its pages are hundreds of spells from across time and space with the power to give life to those no longer with us.
Your father is doing his best to revive your mother. But this island’s barrier is blocking his will, resisting his magic. I can no longer watch you suffer in solitude when a solution exists. All you have to do is decipher the text, and its powers are yours. Your mother will be returned to you.
River does not want to part with it. She will become suspicious of you if you ask, and it will become harder to acquire it. You will have to take it without her notice by levitating it out of her forge. She, like many others, is fearful of the Book’s power. This fear isn’t entirely unwarranted for them, but for you, your connection to the Feywilds’ magic will be enough to grant you access to that otherworldly power.
Good luck, and all my love to your dear mother when she returns.
Fond regards,
A friend
Could this be it? Could this be the miracle she's been waiting for? Hope swells painfully in her chest as she clutches the note close. She mustn't celebrate too early. She still needs to get the book. At least her mysterious friend has already told her where to find it. Her jaw sets in a look of determination, and she speeds away into the dusk.
It doesn't take long to reach the forge. River has defended it well, but Elsie slips into her own shadow and sneaks beneath the door without so much as a whisper of sound. Only her hand extends from the puddle of shadow on the floor inside, like a disembodied arm hovering before the flames. Mustering her will, she reaches out to the ancient book and commands the winds to lift it. Sweat beads her shadowy brow while she concentrates, the flames flicker and dance around the slowly levitating book. Just a little more, a little more… There!
It's heavy in her hand, and remarkably cool to the touch despite having been pulled from the fire. She retracts her arm and the book back into her shadow and slips out the way she came. Her heart thumps in her chest as she races back to the safety of her tree. To her mother, who will soon be able to wrap flesh and blood arms around her like she once did. All that's left now is to read. Her friends have been teaching her how. Her mother will be so proud of her.
Carefully now, she opens the book, feeling her skin crawl as a sudden unease grips her very core. No, she will not be deterred. The language is unlike any she's ever seen. The letters, if indeed they can be called that, feel jagged and painful to her mind. Still, she will Not Give Up. She screws her eyes shut, thinks of her mother, and holds tight to her desperate hope to be reunited.
When her eyes reopen to behold the page before her, understanding strikes like lightning. Suddenly, she knows she can speak the words. As they escape her mouth, an unknown magic swells into the space around her, then beyond her. The ground shakes. The air turns foul. And as the trinkets in Elsie’s tree chime together in the unsettling breeze, ringing out with notes more sour than usual, it quickly becomes clear that the advice she received was not from any friend.
The forms of people begin to pry themselves loose from the ground all over town, as if emerging from water, leaving the ground unbroken as they lift themselves out of the ground. They bear horrid injuries, shambling along grotesquely, telling a story of death. However, these are not skeletons from the graveyard, housing the souls of long-dead locals. These are things of flesh and blood, however exposed they might be, wearing newer faces.
Much newer.
Since the barrier went up, many people have died, only to have their bodies vanish and replaced by a new one. Those bodies now walk the town, seeking to unleash a wrath brought on by the corrupted magic of the Necronomicon. Anyone who has died inside the barrier will have a violent, undead copy of themself representing each death wandering the island looking to increase their ranks. Which means that there will be many, many, many Yoricks.
Destroyed copies will remain destroyed for the standard overnight period of any other person. But there are too many of them to defeat this way, and their destruction is impermanent. Thankfully, help is on the way!
In the midst of the undead and their attack on the citizens of Pumpkin Hollow, tiny glimmers of hope appear in the form of folded paper birds. The little gold birds flit from fighter to fighter, small whispers promising that if enough enemies can be felled then the High Priestess can intervene. The necessary number is unknown, but if a bird alights upon someone, they will feel their weariness vanish for a short time, and perhaps, should she feel like it, they may receive a temporary boon to use against the undead.
Eventually the High Priestess will show herself, making good on the promises of the little birds. With a smile, her magic will wrap around the remaining undead, returning them to the unseen graves and binding them into Death once more, leaving the living to pick up the pieces.
Tingling, tingling
The voice is sharp with stress but undeniably his. Whatever he's talking about, however, is unclear. If he established any kind of password, it wasn't with Carolina.
no subject
"Wh— It's Carolina, you idiot. Open the door!"
Punctuated by her gunstock striking solidly— one, two, three— against wood.
no subject
no subject
Carolina slides through the door and slams it closed behind her. Immediately she's on him, closing the gap in one long stride to bat her fist against his shoulder. Not hard, but not particular soft, either. The Catherine Church equivalent to a reunion kiss.
"You think you're funny? Things are falling apart out there and you're concerned with a password?"
Alert eyes scan Gerry for damage. Nothing, not yet.
"People around town are establishing safe-zones. You should go."
no subject
His nose wrinkles. "You want me to go to to a safehouse? Me? The Monster Manual with all-seeing eyes? Fuck that, I'm an asset. I'm going with you."
no subject
Aha. So that's why some look familiar; faces she's seen only in passing, at bars and cafes and shopping in town. The features of any enemy have a habit of melding together. Non-important in the grand scheme of things. Weapons aren't often found in the face. Teeth can be knocked in, and that's about it.
Carolina's lips form a thin line, obviously not pleased with the idea but lacking in any real rational as to why he can't. I don't want you to. You'll get hurt. You might die. What if I can't— None of them work.
"You're telling me you can fight? Really fight? I need to know what I'm working with so I can make sure you don’t die."
no subject
no subject
She detests the idea, and makes it plain on her face and by way of a pointed silence. Cheap and dirty aren't ideal. They leave openings for attack; openings he can see on account of the eyes— oh, god damnit. There's no saying no, is there?
"Fine. But you are going to communicate, you hear me?" She jams her finger into Gerry's chest. "Don't be the hero. Don't take on more than you can handle. If it's too much, say something and get the hell out of there. We'll rejoin here, reassess and attack from a different angle. And if I tell you to stand down, Gerry, you listen to me. Got it?"
no subject
no subject
"Fair. You want a gun, or are you satisfied with your shiv there?" She gestures to the blade ready in his hand, a half-assed attempt at humor.
"Every single enforcer is probably rushing their way into town right now, which means we'll do their dirty work and pick off the stragglers. That way people seeking shelter will have a clear path through. Sound good?"
no subject
"Good plan. Let the constables handle the bulk and we'll stick to the low volume areas, try and get people through. Lead the way. I'll watch your back."
no subject
She leaves Gerry to his pointy devices. No use pawning off a gun that might jam in a pinch— or worse, explode in his face. (It would be a shame to have inadvertently ruined something so pretty). She retires her second firearm emergencies only, slings her rifle to her front and checks its chamber.
"Copy that."
Please try not to die.
She ushers open the door. There to greet her is a cloying, middle-aged corpse of a man. His fractured skull and exposed brain matter give him a sort of lopsidedness. His tongue flaps dumbly. He reaches taloned fingers toward her. Click, aim, fire. Exploding through his chest in a cacophony of noise and metal and old blood. It collapses.
Off they go.
no subject
Down past the entrance to the shop and into the streets, strangely barren. No movement. Bad sign. Gerry's eyes stay peeled. The ones that she can see and the ones she can't. A few he's drawn in chalk around the town activate for him as he goes near, like security cameras.
"Town Hall is secure," he informs her. "Oak & Iron is not. Steer clear. Too easy to get cornered. They're not lumbering fools, they're still as smart as people." A thought. "Shit, that's right. If you hear anyone crying for help, stay back until I have a chance to check them. It... might be Thatcher's Blight."
no subject
Carolina considers asking him how he does it. What power is it that allows him to know these things. The Eye, she's aware. This awareness doesn't stop her from wanting to hook fingers beneath the lid, to peel it back and observe vortex veins and sclera. Is it intuition? The sending off of one's consciousness, like astral projecting? Or is it simpler? Lines blurred between peripheral vision and panopticon, whose field of view extends in all directions.
He'd make a great asset in the field— not that she could ever wrangle him into a UNSC outfit.
She decides it doesn't matter right now. Later, maybe.
Whipping around on her heel, "Thatcher's what?"
Heeeelp... Help...
no subject
"Thatcher's Blight. Magic rabies, I guess. It was a disease that was going around, controlled the victim's minds to varying degrees. The final stage, while they were dying of it, was to lie down on the ground and wail for help. Last ditch effort to spread the illness was to get someone trying to help to touch them. I don't know if you can catch it from one of these things, but it isn't worth the risk," Gerry explains quickly. "If the person has Corruption marks, it's the Blight. I can see that. So let me check before you go near them. If they're clear, we help. If not, double tap."
no subject
"That's disgusting," she says tightly. Falls back to Gerry's rear, happy to allow him the first glimpse at what writhes, bellied and pleading in the grass. Help me... Please, gods, help me...
Her gun barrel prods the air over his shoulder. Her breath is warm on his nape.
"On your signal."
no subject
He rounds the corner, the body on the ground coming into sight.
All at once, his vision is flooded with the ghosts of writhing, squirming things. Those dancing flashes of images burned into ones eyes behind the lid upon closing, every color and no color at all, but with eyes wide open. Skittering sigils of worms and filth and foul contagion roil across the skin and clothing of this false copy of a local woman. Her eyes are hollow.
"Infected," he diagnoses sharply. "Don't let her touch you. And don't let her talk you out of putting her down."
no subject
"I see this one didn't come back."
What are you waiting for? Why... are you doing this? Why won't you help me...?
"Got it."
There's an unnatural body to the woman's voice; too much strength for a person dying. She sobs once, determined to put on a show for Carolina, who steps into view.
"Please, please, please I'm hurt. I'm not one of them. I need to get home. Please, help me get home. God, it fucking hurts." Broken fingernails cap broken fingers. She hooks them into the soil. Drags her worm-eaten body like something exploded from the waist down. Carolina raises her gun and the woman begins to wail incomprehensibly.
Her stomach lurches.
A gunshot rings out into the air.
no subject
Might have actually needed help. But then again, what could they have done for someone that badly messed up? Best to put her down, spare her the pain. Especially in a place where death doesn't stick. But then again, there'll be one of those running around tomorrow, more than likely. Might have been better to keep her alive till this ends, make her comfortable. Maybe.
No time to decide what was the right answer. What's done is done. Whoever she is, she can take it up with Carolina tomorrow.
"I--- Nevermind. Just startled me. Let's keep moving."
no subject
Carolina pivots, turns a mean look on him. "What were you expecting? You told me to shoot her. If you can't give straight orders, don't give them at all."
Gerry is right about one (many) thing. These creatures, half dead and lazing through town, are intelligent. Some may not act like it— they swing dumbly and uncoordinated, speak in grunts instead of words— but as her gunshot rings out in echos across the still-pond air, they know it's an action by living flesh.
They make guttural, alerted sounds. Peel out from between buildings. There's five in total— for now.
"Anything I should know about these ones?" Carolina asks pointedly, throwing her rifle over her back and trading it for the handgun.
no subject
Carolina pivots, turns a mean look on him. "What were you expecting? You told me to shoot her. If you can't give straight orders, don't give them at all."
Gerry is right about one (many) thing. These creatures, half dead and lazing through town, are intelligent. Some may not act like it— they swing dumbly and uncoordinated, speak in grunts instead of words— but as her gunshot rings out in echos across the still-pond air, they know it's an action by living flesh.
They make guttural, alerted sounds. Peel out from between buildings. There's five in total.
"Anything I should know about these ones?" Carolina asks a little pointedly, throwing her rifle over her back and trading it for the handgun.
no subject
She asks about these, he presumes, as a jab. She knows what they are. Gerry's eyes are already elsewhere, looking for more. "Nope. All good."
no subject
"And that's supposed to be my fault?" She snaps, knife's-edge-frustration hitting knife's edge. Outnumbered by three and although she's positive she can handle it— you can handle it— a vein swells across her forehead.
She watches his back like a hawk. Can't help herself.
Two men charge her either side, their footfall like a wild elephant's. The remaining three, a comical variation of size and shape, set their minds on making Gerry's bad day worse.
no subject
His eyes snap from green to grey. Back to the here and now. He reacts just as about to be bum-rushed, grabbing the shirt of the middle-sized one and hurling her onto the ground, planting his foot into the chest of the smallest, and then stabbing the largest (shit, is that Martin? Sorry Martin) in the neck. He's poised and ready to act as the other two start to stand.
Even still, one eye somewhere on his body is on her.
no subject
"I'm not acting like anything—"
The larger of two corpses throws arms out at her in an attempted bear-hug. She banks left, rolls and is back on her feet, stomping the tender popliteal fossa and sending her foe onto one knee. Positioned safely at its back, she fires two shots. It collapses face-first into the dirt.
The second corpse is on her in an instant. Its breath reeks of stagnant water and bile, of mould and root-rot. It wrenches her by the shirt, which pisses her off because it does it in front of him, and the last thing she needs is Gerry thinking she's incapable.
Snarling, Carolina snaps her gunstock against its nose. The move earns her a bit of space— enough to strike elbow to eye socket.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)